She turned to hang her apron on the hook. “What is it?”
He swept his hat from his head. “I’ve just spoken with your father.”
She pushed past him to return the glass dye jars to their spaces on the shelf. “Oh?”
“I—I know you’re confused about the current situation, and you do not agree with me or your father right now. But I’m asking you to trust me.” His words were soft and slow. The sincerity in his eyes made her pause. “Not your father, not the other weavers, but me.”
“Trust you?” Was he in earnest?
“I know you have feelings for Mr. Stockton.”
She shook her head again at his blunt words and stepped back. “You don’t know anything.”
“I may not be the cleverest man, but I can recognize when a woman looks at a man with love in her eyes.”
She stared at him, searching for a response. But none came.
“There.” He pointed at her. “You’ve no clever comeback, which proves my suspicions correct.”
She turned back to the table. What good would it do to argue?
He slid his fingers through his hair. “I had hoped that over time you would grow to care for me as I care for you. But dark times are upon us, and lines must be drawn in the sand and decisions must be made. Kate, if this operation is to thrive, to survive the stormy seas ahead, we must present a unified front.”
She refused to look at him, and he drew close to her.
“Have I not been patient? Have I not waited while you look for whatever it is you are searching for? Whether you like it or not, you are a Dearborne. Your brother may have abandoned your father, but you haven’t it in you to do something like that to one you love.”
She eyed him. The words, such as they were, should have felt like a compliment. But there was something deeper to them, a condemnation almost. A challenge as to whether she dared to go against her father’s wishes.
“Why are you resisting?” he continued. “It’s important to your father to know he is leaving a legacy, and you and I are that legacy. You, his daughter. I, the man in whom he has instilled everything he knows about the business. He has been planning for this since the day I arrived at Meadowvale. Do you not feel it?”
She met John’s gaze fully. He expected her to answer, but words would not form.
John’s intentions could not be clearer, but to her, nothing seemed easy or sure. She may not understand her heart at times, but she did know right from wrong, and that knowledge needed to be her guide.
Instead of donning her cloak of deep red, Kate selected a cape of dark gray from her wardrobe. The last thing she wanted was to attract attention. As she tightened the cloak about her shoulders, she eyed the men in the courtyard making their way to the stable. No doubt they were meeting in preparation for tonight’s attack.
She drew a shuddery breath. If only there was some way to know for certain that she was making the right decision.
She stood for several moments in the threshold to her chamber, listening, making sure the cottage’s main floor was quiet before descending the stairs and stepping out into the night. The full darkness of a moonless night would soon be on her side. If she was going to leave Meadowvale unnoticed, now was the time.
She did not take a cart or even a horse. Instead, she set out on foot, cutting through the familiar forest behind Meadowvale Cottage, avoiding the main road altogether. Careful not to leave footprints, she sidestepped the snow. She did not anticipate anyone following her, but she didn’t want to take any chances.
As she hurried through the woods, she practiced in her head what needed to be said. She had to talk to Charles. He was the key to spreading the word. She had no idea what she ultimately would say to him or how much she would reveal, but the pressing weight of responsibility was too much to keep within. Enough people had suffered. If she kept this information to herself and something bad did happen, she doubted she could live with herself.
At this time of evening, her brother would be at the countinghouse. There was a real chance Mr. Stockton also would be there. The thought of seeing him again after their last interaction chilled her.
She kept her eyes focused straight ahead and ignored the inquisitive gazes that followed her and the clusters of millers who halted conversations to watch her. She tightened her cape and lifted her gloved hand to knock on the countinghouse door.
“Come,” a male voice responded.
She mustered her courage and opened the door.
Mr. Stockton looked up from sorting letters, and his hands stilled in midair when his gaze met hers.
He looked tired. His left eye was bruised, dark circles shadowed his normally bright eyes, and his neckcloth hung untidily about his neck. His disheveled hair hung low over his brow, giving him a roguish appearance, and his eyebrows narrowed briefly, as if he was confused.
Neither of them spoke for several moments. Neither moved.
She had ruined the rapport between them, and that knowledge tugged on her already raw emotions.
“Miss Dearborne.” He straightened at last and lowered the papers to the desk. “How may I assist you?”
There were so many things she wanted to say. So many things she wanted to explain. But she needed to stay focused on the task at hand. “Forgive the interruption”—she lowered her cape’s hood—“but I need to speak with my brother. It’s an urgent matter.”
He pressed his lips together. “Of course.”
He disappeared in the back room, and several moments later he reappeared with Charles just behind him.
Charles frowned and drew close to her, concern creasing his brow. “What is it, what’s wrong?”
She winced at the garish scab on his lip—a result no doubt of the brawl. “I must speak with you.”
Mr. Stockton started to retreat. “I’ll give you privacy.”
“Wait.” Her word was a surprise even to her. She rose above the embarrassment. “This concerns you too.”
His expression sober, Mr. Stockton stepped back inside the main room, hands clasped behind his back, stance wide.
She looked to make sure the door was closed behind her. “There is going to be an attack on this mill. Tonight.”
Charles dropped his arms that had been crossed in front of his chest.
Mr. Stockton winced.
Her throat grew thick, and she lifted her hands. “Don’t ask for details. Just please, take precautions.”
Mr. Stockton sucked in a deep breath, and he and Charles exchanged glances.
Her brother stepped forward and took her arm. “Are you certain?”
She nodded. “It is to happen just before midnight.” The words rushed from her, but they offered no release. She’d done it. She’d betrayed her father. “Men are coming from Leeds and Bremton. That’s all I know. Please, just take precautions.”
The sting of tears pricked her eyes. She could see the questions balancing in both their expressions.
She clutched her cloak, but before she turned to leave, she met her brother’s gaze. “Charles, please. I’m in a terrible situation. This is all I can tell you, but promise me you’ll be careful.”
CHAPTER 32
Henry watched the hem of her dark-gray cloak clear the frame and the door slam closed.
Had she really said what he thought she’d said?
Despite what had happened between them, could it be possible that she would notify him about an attack on his mill?
The gravity of her words, and the implication they held, grabbed Henry by the throat. After several seconds, he turned to Dearborne. “Is she serious?”
Dearborne dragged his hand down his face and propped his hands akimbo before lifting his shoulders in a shrug. “At one time I never would have thought my father capable of this, but now, I don’t know.”
Henry paced the small space, growing increasingly troubled with each passing second. The familiar knot in his stomach—the one that would always tighten before a battle—cinched within him. It was
not just the war for his mill that concerned him. By coming to them and sharing this news, Miss Dearborne was putting herself in harm’s way. “Your sister has declared time and time again that she’s loyal to your father, at least to me. Would she really warn us?”
“Kate’s loyal, yes, but she is also rational, and she’s also loyal to me. She must really believe us to be in danger.”
Henry combed his fingers through his hair. Sudden energy took hold. Was this why his grandfather had taken to sleeping in the mill room? Suddenly he had a new understanding of the man. He was starting to feel the tie to the people, to the grounds, to the industry. Henry stared into the fire. He thought of the letters his grandfather and Pennington had received—threats to his land, his property, his life. These people—these cowards—had already taken his grandfather from him. He’d not allow them to take his mill and everything it stood for.
“Let’s notify the guards and tell them to look out for anything unusual,” he directed. “Fetch Belsey in here and let’s notify the magistrate. He may be able to call the militia. And get some of the male workers to stay tonight,” he continued as his thoughts took more definite shape. “We will put together a schedule for them to stand watch throughout the night until we are out of danger.”
Henry hated the memories of war, but perhaps his experiences were training for just this moment. He may not fully understand all the inner workings of a mill, but he understood soldiers. Yes, he was ready for this. “I’ll be staying here for the time being as well. If it is a fight they want, we’ll give them one.”
Kate raced through the familiar forest. She needed to get back home before anyone discovered her absence. Twigs snapped beneath her feet, and the thickets tugged at her cloak. She couldn’t see much in the snow, but she could see the yellow lights of lanterns moving around Meadowvale.
What have I done?
All was eerily quiet as she stepped through Meadowvale’s gate. Dark-blue light shadowed the loom and dye houses, the stable, and the cottage. Before she left, the courtyard had been swarming with people and horses, but now only a few men lingered, talking by the stables.
Once inside the cottage, she called out, “Papa?”
The fire was burning low, and all was still. She stepped farther into the still space, her wet boots clicking heavily on the wood-planked floor. “Betsy?”
Still no answer.
Using the fire from the hearth, she lit a candle. The light cast bending shadows on the wall as she rounded the staircase, and the stairs creaked as she made her way up to her chamber. Once in the safety and silence of her room, she paced the narrow space.
How could she rest in light of what might happen? Possible scenarios rushed her. She could go to the mill. But if the weavers did attack, what could she do?
Her pulse still racing, she reached to pull the bow that secured her cloak when her eye caught on something on the wardrobe. A letter. Kate stared at it for several seconds.
It was not often she received letters, but when she did, it was not uncommon for Betsy to place them here. She lifted the missive and turned it over. Her name was written on the front, but there was nothing else. She placed her candle on her table, ran her finger under the wax seal, and opened it.
Dear Miss Dearborne,
Mrs. Smith’s time has arrived, and she has asked for you to come. She is in a great deal of pain and could use your friendship.
Mrs. Figgs
Kate lowered the letter. Guilt washed over her. She had told her friend she would visit after the Winter’s End Festival, and she had failed to do so. And now Mollie was in need of comfort and care.
She had to go. She tucked the letter in a small pocket within her cloak and tightened the ribbons fastening her cloak, then raced into the night.
CHAPTER 33
The clouds had parted, and silver moonlight streamed down. It reflected off the remaining patches of snow, the brightness seeming to turn night into day.
Kate’s stomach churned with nerves and the thought of what would meet her when she arrived at Stockton House. She’d heard tales of the horrors of childbirth but had never witnessed it. She had seen ewes give birth, but that would hardly prepare her to be of much assistance.
She hurried her steps along the frozen road. Small bits of ice and mud kicked up on her cloak, but she could not stop.
At the Stockton House gate, she placed a gloved hand on it and creaked it open. She ran to the servants’ entrance, just as she always did, and did not bother to knock. Once inside, Kate made her way through the kitchen and around to the foyer, where she noticed light seeping from the study. Not wanting to be detected, she hurried down the corridor, but a familiar voice slowed her steps.
“Figgs, fetch the hunting rifles from the library, will you? And I think there is a pistol in the chest on the bottom shelf of the wardrobe. We’ll need every one, I’m afraid.”
Henry Stockton’s voice froze her feet to the ground.
“Figgs!” Urgency tightened his timbre. Muttering and swift footsteps soon followed, and the door jerked open.
Their eyes locked instantly; neither moved. Neither breathed. His hair fell disheveled over his somber face. His lips were parted. The bruise on his face—not to mention the pistol clutched in his fist—contributed to his sinister presence.
At length she drew a breath and knitted her fingers together in front of her. “I—I thought you would be at the mill.”
“I’ve just returned from there.” He motioned toward the stairs. “But Mollie’s time is upon us.”
“I know. I received a letter asking me to attend her.”
His expression did not soften, nor did his tone. “At least you can be with her. Unfortunately I’m needed at the mill.”
Her gaze shifted from the pistol in his hand to the rifle on the table behind him. Her heart sank. “Do you think you will need those?”
His gaze followed hers. “I hope not. Time will tell.”
Silence filled the space between them. She felt as if she should offer some sort of explanation for her sharp words the night of the Winter’s End Festival, but she didn’t know what to say or where to begin, especially in light of the situations they both were now in. Besides, with so many important things to tend to at the mill, she did not want to detain him.
He finally broke the silence. “Thank you for coming to be with Mollie.”
“I’m not sure what help I will be.”
“She esteems you. Just your presence here will be a comfort, I know.”
Kate stepped back sheepishly as Mr. Figgs descended the staircase.
Mr. Figgs eyed her with wordless suspicion before he crossed the foyer and handed another pistol to Mr. Stockton. “Good. Is that all of them?”
“There are two hunting rifles in the library. Fetch them for me, will you? Then we’ll be off.”
Mr. Figgs hurried away, and Mr. Stockton turned the bulk of his attention back to Kate.
Her heart ached at the pain evident in his expression. This would not be an easy night for him—for so many reasons.
She cared for him.
The realization jolted her.
She cared that he was frightened. She cared that he was passionate. She wanted to tell him as much, but what right did she have to do so? She’d already denied him. Perhaps if he would repeat his declarations, her responses could be different.
But it was too late.
Too late for it all.
In a quick sweep he gathered his things and reached for his oilskin greatcoat. His words were almost an afterthought as he reached for his wide-brimmed hat and jammed it on his head. “Please take care of her.”
“I’ll not leave her side.” Her voice cracked. “Be careful.”
He nodded, bowed slightly in parting, and left.
Dread settled over her as she stared at the empty space where he had been. Not only did she fear for his safety, but she feared for the safety of Papa and Charles. How was it possible that the men she cared about most w
ere likely to be locked in battle soon?
An anguished cry rang out in a chamber behind her, and she returned her attention to the task at hand. She could not worry about those things now. She needed to focus on her friend.
After leaving Miss Dearborne, Henry met Figgs in the courtyard. The old man had brought around the wagon, and as they loaded the weapons, Henry glanced up at the yellow light spilling from the windows.
He had not expected to see Miss Dearborne at the mill earlier today, let alone at his house this evening. Every aspect of his life seemed in a state of upheaval. A shadow crossed past his sister’s chamber window, and a pang of guilt thudded harder than Whitby’s fist against his ribs. He should stay with her. He’d heard too many stories of women who faced death during childbirth. But how could he expect others to fight to protect his property if he was not willing to be present?
Decisions were not always easy to make, but he was certain this was the right course.
He climbed up into the wagon and signaled Figgs to proceed, and the cart crunched over snow and ice. They arrived quickly, the ride but a few minutes, and a menacing silence covered the grounds.
No one was visible. Not a soul stirred. All was quiet.
With every sense heightened, he scanned the blackened tree line. Was he being watched? It would be easy for men to hide out in the woods. If they were planning an attack, it was likely they would be conducting some sort of surveillance.
They arrived at the mill entrance, and several men, including Belsey, were at the large door, waiting.
“Anything?” Henry jumped down from the cart.
Belsey shook his head as he accepted the crate of weapons. “No, sir. Not a thing.”
Henry could see the shadows of men just inside the mill’s windows, standing near the looms. In the past the attackers had gone for the windows and the doors to gain access to the machines inside. With the walls of thick stone, they were the only way in.
They simply would not allow that to happen.
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